


To Those Who Feel Nothing

by gompadre



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, lil bit of oppressive governments and state violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21929563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gompadre/pseuds/gompadre
Summary: In the utopia of the Stato Kolektiva, emotions have been destroyed for the sake of logic and progress. Do Kyungsoo runs an underground operation of bottled emotions for a hefty price in the city of Nova Okazo. Fear, Happiness, Sadness - he has it all. All except Love. He cannot make what he has not felt. But then he meets a dancer.
Relationships: Do Kyungsoo | D.O/Kim Jongin | Kai
Comments: 19
Kudos: 46
Collections: Kaisoo OLAO Chapter Two





	To Those Who Feel Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt #115

Emotions are drugs. They are addictive, volatile, and in many cases lethal. People lose their jobs because of emotions, their will to be productive and _good_ citizens. The people of the city of Nova Okazo are all model citizens. Logical, rational, emotionless people.

But human nature, contrary to the Stato Kolektiva’s belief, is not to be squashed in a box. It is to grow, to feel, to love. It is to be curious for curiosity’s sake, to weep for joy and laugh in the midst of one’s sorrow. Yet none of this is allowed. Nova Okazo has been purged of emotion and is now the pinnacle of progress and invention; it is the capital of the northern district, and past the mechanized city walls is The Wilderness, a sprawling expanse of dense pine forest and the far off white-crowned mountains.

And in the city itself, in secretive alleys, abandoned subway stations, off-the-grid basements from the city that existed before the Dua Renaskiĝo that led to the Stato Kolektiva’s formation, a thriving network of illicit markets for emotions. Happiness is the most popular, naturally, though it often requires a chaser of Calm so the person doesn’t spiral into a depressive episode. Anger is a close second, but it's a dangerous emotion; too often it is the one that gets people caught. They lose themselves in it, looking to stem the overflow by taking it out on the Brigado, or sometimes more personal targets. Their employers, the local child-rearing center, their neighbors.

They always have Base chews, a return to the neutral nothingness the Stato Kolektiva expects. But that’s the thing about emotions. One too many and neutrality starts to feel like depression. One too many and people start to get anxious, worrying that they’ll be found out, but unable to stop craving more.

But that's their problem, Kyungsoo reasons. He used to distill because he believed he could change Nova Okazo, but over time it became obvious that wasn’t going to happen. Now he’s here to make money, not care for people’s addictions and anxieties. The more they want, the more they’re willing to pay. Distillation is a delicate process, after all, and a pricey one. It requires isolation, and a certain amount of control, but too much control makes the emotion teeter on the edge of becoming artificial. Kyungsoo found out in the beginning of his trafficking days that controlled emotions bring down prices; the effects are too ephemeral, a washed out taste that always sours in the end. Genuine emotions are hard to make, and even harder to get into edible form, but Kyungsoo soon smooths out the process, and his stream of steady clients means his pockets are always comfortably lined. It’s this flow of cash that leads him to discover the emotion of Pride. He likes that one.

And his clients spend a lot. They never come to his lab, because that would be too dangerous, but Kyungsoo is, very conveniently, a mailman. He slips in the tin of chewable tablets with their mail and continues on his day. Their requests come in through a hacked hejma tabulo and Kyungsoo fulfills them accordingly. Usually it’s an abundance of requests for Happiness, Inspiration, and Calm, but he also gets requests for Sadness, for Jealousy, and for Anger. The ones who request Anger are always willing to pay the most. They’re also usually the most volatile. He knows he’ll lose them soon to the Brigado, but again, it’s not his problem.

What _is_ his problem is that he’s had a hard time with Happiness lately. He’s been in the business for a few years now, steadily pumping out emotions for people to eat, to feel, to experience. He used to adore the thrill, but it’s gotten stale, and he has to jump through more complicated hoops to evoke the emotions he needs. And there’s also the small problem of the emotion people keep requesting that he just cannot make: Love. Not just any love, but deep, real, true Love. The kind of Love people find out about by reading tattered copies of pre-Dua Renaskiĝo pulp romance books (he's not sure how these people get their hands on them, but he knows the books are out there). Some sellers _claim_ to have Love, but it’s always more like an infatuation, a blip of flavor as ephemeral as that of Pre-Dua Renaskiĝo gum. Nobody has genuine Love. How can they, in a society like this? Fear is everywhere now, with the Stato Kolektiva cracking down on more sellers and buyers, but Love…

He pushes it out of his mind, pouring the last of his latest batch of Inspiration into a candy tray to chill. He always adds color to the batches to make them distinguishable (because he’s not always inclined to read the labels), and Inspiration is a luscious rosewood pink. He covers the tray with cling wrap so it won’t get contaminated, then places it on the Inspiration shelf with the others. His Happiness shelf is running dangerously low, but he’s not willing to put himself through another session in the distillation hub, so he wipes everything down, triple checks his locks, and heads out.

~

He hates sirens. The wail and whine and the flashing lights that accompany them are just as bad. It makes him feel like the Institucio por la Brigado de Logiko (the Brigado for short) is breathing down his neck. There’s another name for the Brigado. The AutoDiktatoro, the self-dictators, people who volunteer to preserve the strict emotional sterility that was expected of model citizens, people so devoted to the Stato Kolektiva’s status quo that they delight in dragging everyone else into their oppression.

The sirens can only mean a bust. It sounds like it’s coming from the south, and Kyungsoo’s lab is east, but he’s paranoid nonetheless. He picks up the pace and pulls the collar of his jacket up. It helps that there’s a cold enough breeze for him to look normal if he tries to cover his face, but he still feels like he looks suspicious. He turns a corner and half-jogs closer to the sirens; he knows he should be running away, just in case, but some part of him wants to make sure the Brigado has found their target and that the target is not his lab.

On the other side of the Hegel Kvadrato, Brigado cars crowd an exit. Kyungsoo can’t make out much, only that the door opens to stairs that dip into a basement, and that a man is being pulled out with his hands cuffed behind him, but a hood obscures his face. Kyungsoo curses. He’s pretty sure Minseok has a distillery down here. A regular distillery for alcohol, but it’s still enough to have him sent to the Reformado. He shudders.

Then a siren screeches to his right, which makes him jump. It’s just another patrol car, most likely backup for the Brigado, but he can’t understand what they’re saying through the crackle of the talkie, so he tries to sneak away. Kyungsoo pulls the collar of his jacket up again, tilting away from the dangerously open space of the Kvadatro and into the alley between two buildings of solid brick. At least he has some protection from the reflections of the glittering glass buildings of the rest of the city. Plenty of people have been caught because they think they’re out of sight, but the treacherous architecture give them away, bending light and splattering reflections and distorting sense of space. But this part of the city, this part is still old brick, red-brown and squat between the skyscrapers.

The sirens are farther now, but Kyungsoo’s palms are still clammy, even as he scrapes them against the last rough brick of the row of buildings that separates the Simetrio Gardenoj neighborhood from the Stoika Altecoj. This is a residential area for those who are productive members of society, but who fall short of the Stato Kolektiva’s standards of excellence. It’s where Kyungsoo lives. He has a one bedroom on the second floor facing a neatly trimmed row of hedges that cover up the wall that separates Nova Okazo from The Wilderness. From his room, he can see the ugly stretch of land that extends past the wall, scorched and flattened to give the city space to maneuver and kill anyone going in or out, and he can see the dense evergreen trees that signify the actual start of The Wilderness.

But nothing happens to him. He gets in his apartment and eats dinner, which is always provided by the city (despite all their pride in citizens, the Stato does not trust them to feed themselves correctly; each meal is measured with the exact nutrients each person needs, and is delivered to them), then showers and throws himself on his bed. The panic of the sirens always tires him out, so all he does is stare at the ceiling until he falls asleep to the scent of pine and cedar. He always leaves his window open to let in a little bit of The Wilderness. Not that he would run away, because he’s just a little bit more terrified of the world outside of Nova Okazo than of the world inside Nova Okazo, but it’s a nice reminder that the option is there.

~

It’s drizzling. A fine mist accompanies the late autumn chill, which worms its way into Kyungsoo’s lungs and clings to every breath he takes. He actually likes this gloomy wet weather; it makes Comfort and Warmth more potent. He’s lost in the fog of anticipation, savoring the emotion before he feels it, but the lilting strings of a classical song parts it. It’s too early for the city’s evening music, which is set for the hour of seven twice a week to “stimulate the minds of the populace” with Classical Music (never for Joy), but that doesn’t stop the crescendo of oboes and cellos.

And Kyungsoo, against his better judgement, follows the music. It leads him to a tree lined square. In the northeast corner, under the shade of dew-laden leaves, a dancer. The Artoj aren’t forbidden in Nova Okazo, only the passionate, emotional kind. All the art that exists now is calculated, mathematical equations of perfection to boost the intelligence of the people. The dancer certainly has the body for it. His limbs are long, the taut muscles evident beneath the close cut of his black clothes. Nothing revealing, lest the dancer accidentally inspires Lust, but still striking enough to paint a dramatic silhouette on the edge of the square. There is no one else in the square, no audience for the dancer to entertain, just himself and the music, and Kyungsoo, who watches until the dancer finally realizes he has company.

“Sorry,” Kyungsoo says. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Shit. He's already misstepped. A good citizen is never startled, not when that can lead to fear. To suggest otherwise…

“It's fine,” the dancer says before Kyungsoo can finish the thought. “I’ve never had an audience for my street performances.”

“People don't stop?” Kyungsoo asks.

The dancer smiles (oh…his smile is genuine, beautiful, bashful) and hangs his head. “I always choose isolated corners for this. Any people that pass by tend to just…continue on their way. They figure I’m probably going to get myself rounded up by the AutoDiktatoro.”

“Do you always choose a different corner?”

The dancer’s lips part, his gaze pensive; he looks out at the road, the glimmer of the skyscrapers that reflect the turbulent gray of the sky. Then he says, “None of them feel right. But I don’t know _what_ doesn’t feel right. I don't know what I’m looking for.”

Kyungsoo’s torn between the desire to gasp and the need to smile. The dancer is clearly one of his own, a frayed thread barely living on the edge of society. It’s because of this he takes a risk. A highly foolish risk, uncalculated and purely instinctual, but there’s something about this dancer that arouses his curiosity.

Kyungsoo nods. A breath of silence before he says, “I think I might know what it is you’re looking for.” He has to resist the urge to smile, because he sounded far more dramatic than he meant to.

The dancer considers him for a long moment, his beautiful face not quite neutral. Kyungsoo has learned to read even the smallest hint of emotion on people’s faces and it’s easy to see the curiosity in the dancer’s.

Finally, “and what's that?”

Kyungsoo shrugs to take the edge off his dramatic statement. “Creativity takes courage.”

The dancer is suspiciously still.

“Not my words,” Kyungsoo says a little too quick. “Henri Matisse. I can blame my treason on someone else, at least.”

Finally, another smile. The dancer seems to relax, his shoulders releasing tension the tension that both of them feel. The humidity-laden breeze ruffles his hair, and he looks at the dance of the leaves pensively.

“Creativity takes courage,” the dancer repeats, pursing his lips.

“There are safe places in this city to find the Courage you need for Creativity.” Kyungsoo lets the rest of it exist as a suggestion, hanging in the mist between them. “Or they can just be a place to practice.”

A smile. Kyungsoo decides he likes the dancer’s smiles. A lot. And just like that his heart constricts. Friendship isn’t encouraged by the Stato, and it’s just not smart for dealers, but Kyungsoo finds himself craving companionship; even little moments like these make his heart flutter. 

“And you know how to get to these places?” the dancer asks.

Kyungsoo bites back his smile; so he won’t be losing the dancer after all. “Hypothetically.”

“What about literally?” the dancer asks, a confused grin on his face.

“I suppose so,” Kyungsoo says.

And that’s how Kyungsoo ends up walking with the dancer to his lab. The walk is quiet, as if they’re both afraid to speak for fear of the Brigado appearing out of nowhere to whisk them away. Only one illicit activity at a time keeps people from getting caught. Of course, that doesn’t stop Kyungsoo from stealing glances of the dancer, and the flutter in his stomach makes him blush. This is all new. Very new. This is not Happiness. At least, not the standard kind.

His lab is under a warehouse in the Sunzi Financa Distrikto, an otherwise normal door that is flush to the warehouse wall. He always keeps a lookout for Brigado men when he’s on the way there, but he’s extra jumpy now that he has company. Strangely, though, the dancer seems calm, waiting for Kyungsoo to unlock the door with a serene smile. 

Kyungsoo checks the safety system first, then darts in, the dancer in tow. He’s desperately curious to know what the dancer thinks, but he doesn’t pry, just waits for the dancer to look around, to inspect the labels on the jars and walk around the distillation hub, eyes wide as he takes it all in. Behind the hub, a boxing bag, and to the worktable’s left, flush against the wall, a plush sofa.

“You have a name?” Kyungsoo asks, lingering by the shelves as the dancer drags his fingers along the worktable edge.

“Should we be giving our real names?” the dancer asks.

Kyungsoo snorts. “If you want.”

“Well, my given name is Dancisto Okdek Ok,” he says.

Dancer 88. Personal names like those before the Dua Renaskiĝo are seen as unclean, since they can lead to emotional attachment. The Stato gives a number to each child, then adds the profession to it once they’re of age to work. At least the dancer’s sounded kind of nice.

“I’m Leterportisto Dek Du,” says Kyungsoo.

Mailman 12. Kyungsoo hates it.

“My heart name is Kyungsoo though,” he adds.

The dancer smiles. “Mine is Jongin.”

“Korean?” Kyungsoo asks.

The dancer nods. “What a coincidence, no?”

Heart names are not strictly legal, but the Stato realized it could only strip people of so much without the population rebelling, so the koro nomo are allowed to exist. Just a little nod to the person’s culture as it would have existed before the Dua Renaskiĝo picked out by the person for themself.

“What do I start with?” Jongin asks.

Kyungsoo purses his lips. “Well, Inspiration makes the most sense.”

The dancer smiles, taking two long strides to meet Kyungsoo at the Inspiration shelf, and Kyungsoo has to tell himself to not look at how long Jongin’s legs are, and to not look at how the soft fabric of his pants hugs the muscle of his thighs.

“Will it taste bad?” Jongin asks.

Kyungsoo laughs. “I hope not.”

He pops out a singular round candy of rosewood pink, thick and pearlescent in the palm of his hand. The dancer takes it and holds it up to the lamplight, lips parting as he looks at it. Then he licks his lips and eats it.

Jongin scrunches his nose and closes his eyes. “Tastes like strawberries and cream.”

Kyungsoo hums appreciatively. He makes his candies flexible; they take on the flavor of whatever the person wants it to taste like. Just as well Jongin was thinking of something sweet. It takes a moment for the dancer to open his eyes again, but when he does so he gasps.

“I…”

“Yes?”

“I _want_ to dance,” he says quietly. “I _need_ to dance.”

“Let’s put on some music for you,” Kyungsoo says softly. He goes to his computer and looks for a song. Once he finds the one he likes, he presses play.

The deep strings of the guitar of Broken practically vibrates through the lab. Jongin walks to the only space big enough for him to dance, which is in the back near the boxing bag, closing his eyes to feel the music. The second the song picks up, Jongin does a turn-out then pliés. A pirouette that transitions into an arabesque penché, a pas de Basque, a grand jeté, a fouetté, en dedans. The dancer is an artist, a _real_ artist, and watching him makes Kyungsoo’s heart soar. It’s like he’s discovering his emotions all over again.

He’s not sure how long he’s been holding his breath, but he lets it out in a rush. His heart is full to the brim; he’s not sure what Emotion he’s feeling. That, in and of itself, is also extremely exciting. He loves new Emotions.

Jongin turns to him, hands flying to grasp his head as he chuckles.

“That…was fucking amazing,” he says. “I mean— I was _dancing_ . Not the shit the Nacia Baleto makes me do, but _real_ dancing. I _felt_ it. I’ve never— I don’t have words for this!”

Kyungsoo tries to bite back his giggle, but he fails. He still remembers trying out his first Emotion, the rush of Excitement that came with it. The way the dancer’s face lights up makes him feel all warm and Happy. It’s been a long time since he’s seen a buyer face to face. Well, Jongin’s not a buyer. It hadn’t even crossed Kyungsoo’s mind to charge him for that, but he knows now, seeing Jongin radiate Happiness like this, that he never will. 

Jongin pauses, glancing over at the candies, then back at Kyungsoo. He bites his lips, and for some reason that little gesture makes Kyungsoo’s neck flush. Weird.

“How much do you usually charge?” he asks, his voice small.

Kyungsoo shrugs, trying to look nonchalant. “It’s affordable, but for you I could work something out.”

Jongin gives him an intrigued look. Kyungsoo has to tear his eyes away, because Jongin is glowing with sweat, eyes bright, light catching on the sheen of his neck, his lips parted. _Definitely_ weird.

“Like what?” the dancer asks.

“Like maybe I don’t charge you, but you have to come here to get your dose,” Kyungsoo says. Then he gulps; that was about as unsubtle as a brick in the face.

But the dancer doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, if the pensive look on Jongin’s face is anything to go by, he’s seriously considering it.

“Okay.”

Kyungsoo blinks, taken aback because he didn’t think the dancer would actually agree. But he did. This is real. He’ll get to see the dancer again.

~

So Jongin becomes a regular thing. At first he comes over once a week to dance, always taking a tablet of Inspiration before he lets Kyungsoo pick a song. And he’s gracious enough to dance inside the distillation hub, which means Kyungsoo wins too, with fresh batches of Inspiration to pour out.

Then it becomes twice a week. Kyungsoo is the one to suggest this, awkwardly, shyly; to his delight, Jongin happily agrees. Jongin sticks mostly to the Inspiration, but he’s tried Happiness, Calm, and half a Sadness candy; he gives Anger a wistful look each time he walks by it. What worries Kyungsoo is that Jongin has also started indulging in bookshops. The illicit kind, of course, which stock books written before the establishment of the Stato, from pulpy romances to wild fantasy. Kyungsoo tells him that he should only keep to one illicit activity, but Jongin shrugs off his concerns, lost in the pages of the latest worn book he’s borrowed.

The dancer watches him a lot. It makes Kyungsoo blush, but he has to get work done while Jongin is there or he won’t be able to fill his quota for the week. It makes things a little weird when Kyungsoo has to go into the distillation hub, but Kyungsoo gets used to it. Eventually. It helps to hum and close his eyes; sometimes he sings softly, just under his breath. Slow songs for Sadness, upbeat songs for Happiness; all of them are definitely banned songs. Jongin observes him, his keen eyes following Kyungsoo’s every move, shifting whenever Kyungsoo moves around the lab.

For two weeks, the dancer is content to watch. He doesn’t ask very many questions, but Kyungsoo will catch him looking over the pages of his book. He stares the most when Kyungsoo hums, but he doesn’t say anything. Not until Kyungsoo is at his worktable, humming along to Tokyo, that Jongin finally asks:

“You sing?”

“Only when I’m here,” Kyungsoo replies. “They had me join the Juneco Orkestro, but my voice was classified too sultry. I was kicked out so I wouldn’t inspire Lust in people.”

“Lust?” Jongin asks.

Kyungsoo feels his ears burn. Something about the tone of the dancer’s voice makes him think Jongin is teasing, but then he sees the curious glint in Jongin’s eyes, and that makes his ears burn even more. He’s not sure why. Well, he has some theories, but nearly all of them point to Kyungsoo having something called a “crush” or an “infatuation” and he doesn’t like the sound of either. Just because he plays a part in rocking the Stato Kolektiva’s boat, doesn’t mean his own life needs to be in a state of disarray. And he _knows_ that these “romantic” feelings will make him a mess.

But he probably should’ve considered that _before_ he invited Jongin into his life.

“Can you sing for me?” Jongin asks.

Kyungsoo groans. He should’ve known Jongin was going to ask.

“I can’t just _sing_ like that, you know,” he grumbles. “I have to warm up my voice, and practice a little, and—”

“And nothing! I’ve danced for you without stretching and warming up beforehand,” Jongin huffs.

“Fine,” Kyungsoo mumbles.

He’s not opposed to singing for Jongin, but it does make him a little bashful to sing in front of people. But...Jongin _has_ danced for him. More than once, in fact, so it was only fair. He scrolls through the songs, settling on Tell Me What is Love.

And he sings. Thankfully his voice doesn’t crack, but he has to close his eyes to keep the weight of Jongin’s gaze from making him mess up.

“Your voice is amazing,” Jongin says almost reverently.

Kyungsoo hates the heat that floods his cheeks. He avoids Jongin’s eyes, tinkering with the conical flask that holds the latest batch of Comfort. It’s butterscotch yellow, still warm to the touch, so Kyungsoo pours it into the candy molds.

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

Jongin waits for him to finish then leans closer, close enough for Kyungsoo to smell the sweet agarwood of Jongin’s cologne.

“It _is_ quite sultry,” the dancer says. Then he chuckles. “At least I think so. I’ve never experienced Lust.”

Kyungsoo’s ears are burning now. He bites his lip as he fights with the cling wrap, which tangles itself more in his fingers the more flustered he gets. And the curious look Jongin is giving him only makes things worse.

“Not something I make,” he finally grunts, balling the cling wrap up and throwing it into the trash. He sucks his teeth, then pulls out more.

“Why not?” Jongin asks.

Kyungsoo presses his lips together. “I don’t want to be responsible for the Brigado busting an orgy because people took too many Lust pills.”

Jongin splutters, his neck flushed. “But don’t people ask for it?”

“Sure they do,” Kyungsoo mutters. He _really_ wishes Jongin would change the subject.

“So…” Jongin trails off, leaning even closer. He’s hovering over the tray, tilting his head to look at condensation on the cling wrap before he looks back at Kyungsoo, his gaze intense.

“Genuine emotions are difficult,” Kyungsoo gives in with a frustrated huff. “I’ve never lusted after anyone, so I can’t distill it.”

“Do you think you would know?” the dancer asks, meeting Kyungsoo’s eye, “would you know Lust when you feel it for the first time?”

Kyungsoo looks at the dancer’s parted lips, the golden slope of his neck and the sliver of smooth skin of his shoulder, the triangle of fluorescent light that pools in Jongin’s exposed collarbone, and he lets his eyes linger there because he wants to see more.

“I think so,” he murmurs.

Jongin opens his mouth as if to say something, then decides against it. Kyungsoo swears there’s a knowing look in the dancer’s eyes, but it seems like they’re finally going to change the topic of conversation, so he doesn’t ask. He’d rather keep his curiosity than bumble into even more awkward territory.

He takes one last look at Jongin. The lights in the lab are not kind, but somehow Jongin manages to look ridiculously beautiful. Kyungsoo indulges for a moment, tracing Jongin’s profile with his gaze; he pauses to appreciate the fullness of the dancer’s lips, but looks away the second Jongin moves. Yeah, he knows _exactly_ what Lust feels like.

~

“Apparently,” Jongin begins, propping his legs onto Kyungsoo’s thighs, “Koreans were pretty touchy with each other when they were close.”

“Touchy?”

“Like, physically touchy. As in hugging, cuddling, hand holding. That kind of stuff,” Jongin says. And right on cue, he brushes a strand of hair out of Kyungsoo’s eye and lets his fingertips linger on Kyungsoo’s cheekbone.

Kyungsoo’s not sure he can handle this.

But he wants it anyway.

He’s looked up touch starvation before. He knows why he so desperately craves Jongin’s touches. He’s ready to wield this as an excuse, but then he realizes he doesn’t need to justify it to anyone, so he just indulges in the sensation of Jongin kneading his shoulder.

Still, a little part of him wants to rationalize this. He’s still Stato born and raised. He tells himself it’s to drive away the wintry cold. And that’s a partial truth. When they come in from the frigid winds, cheeks and noses red, they take a few minutes to cuddle on the sofa and warm up. But it becomes routine for them to sit in a heap on the sofa when Jongin reads, or when Kyungsoo’s making notes about his latest concoctions, or when they’re just talking.

It makes leaving unbearable. Especially on days when Jongin is being a big baby, his face buried in Kyungsoo’s neck, his warmth and weight blanketing Kyungsoo. Jongin is especially forward about his touching, and he doesn’t wait for the sofa to do it. It drives Kyungsoo nuts (in a good way...or at least, that’s what Kyungsoo tells himself). When Jongin arrives, a hug. When Jongin passes Kyungsoo by, a touch on the waist, a pat on the ass, a hand through Kyungsoo’s hair. Kyungsoo’s brain very helpfully fries itself to a crisp, and then he’s unable to think about anything but the warmth of Jongin’s touch. Sometimes, Kyungsoo is the one to start the touching. He’ll drag his fingers across the small of Jongin’s back, tangle his fingers in Jongin’s hair, tease the nape of Jongin’s neck with his fingertips.

And he starts to realize that maybe he doesn’t just think of the dancer as a friend. Well, he realized that a the first day he meets Jongin, but he finally admits it to himself. He can’t deny it, not when his ears turn red each time the dancer stares at him, and not when his stomach somersaults every time Jongin touches him, and not when the thing he looks forward to the most every week is seeing Jongin. He lives for the dancer’s bright smile, the bliss on the dancer’s face when he pops an Inspiration candy and starts to dance. He lives for the little scrunch of concentration that mars the dancer’s forehead when he reads, and he lives for the ecstatic glow of Jongin’s face after the dancer finishes a song. On the nights after he sees Jongin, he ends up in his bed smiling at the ceiling like an idiot. Even Base chews aren’t enough to wipe the stupid smile off his face, and he doesn’t dare risk taking too many. Not that he _wants_ to anyway, because this feeling, this new Emotion, feels so _good_ he never wants it to go away. He’s still not sure what to label it (Infatuation? Love? No…no, he’s not confident about that), but for some reason…he doesn’t care. He’s just content to let it course through him each time he thinks of Jongin. For now, that’s all he needs.

~

“I’ve never felt this one before,” Jongin says.

He’s standing in front of the shelf of Anger. Kyungsoo makes two kinds, hot Anger and cold Anger, but Jongin seems to have settled on the hot, which was always warm to the touch.

“Do you want to?” Kyungsoo asks.

Jongin seems to hesitate, but finally nods, his face solemn, resolute. Kyungsoo joins his side, popping a candy out of the jar; he tries not to focus so much on the way their arms touch when he does this. He plops the candy onto Jongin’s outstretched hand, his fingertips lingering on Jongin’s palm for a second longer than they need to. He blushes, because he’s getting quite ridiculous with this.

Jongin looks at the Anger candy, which is deep currant red, then gingerly pops it into his mouth. Kyungsoo watches him chew, the slow transformation of his face as the effects of the candy hit him. First it’s the tightness of his jaw, then it’s the dangerous flicker in his eyes.

The dancer flexes his fingers, then balls them into a fist. His chest heaves, controlled but deep, even as his lip curls. He bares his teeth, grimacing.

“It’s best if you don’t bottle it up inside of you,” Kyungsoo says softly.

He doesn’t touch the dancer, just in case, but Jongin follows him to the back, facing the boxing bag. He gets close. Too close. The dancer’s nose is barely an inch away from the bag, the anger still a simmer in his eyes, but just like that, he snaps.

A raw yell. The first punch. It’s a breaking dam, and Jongin’s punches the deluge that follow. The lab echoes with fists on leather, with Jongin’s labored breaths, his grunts, and all the while Kyungsoo watches him. It’s been so long since he saw someone experience Anger for the first time. He’s fascinated, entranced. There’s something beautiful about the way Jongin explodes.

The dancer takes an uncertain step back, gripping his sweater. And before Kyungsoo can react, he rips it in half, but his anger seems to crest with the sound of ripping fabric; he holds the pieces in his hands and falls to his knees, his face flushed and wet with tears. Kyungsoo kneels in front of him and cups Jongin’s hot cheeks in his hands. He doesn’t say anything, because there’s still a frenzied look in his eyes. A whirlwind. Anger, despair, loss. But that’s the thing about hot Anger; it goes as quickly as it comes. It’s a punch in the gut that leaves people breathless. It’s a catalyst, a rupture that intensifies all the other emotions, a boiling pot that makes people wake up. This is why Anger is the most dangerous. It makes people want to act. To fight. To change.

But for now, Jongin just catches his breath, eyes closed, as Kyungsoo strokes his cheeks. There’s something so terribly beautiful about seeing Jongin break, seeing him crack and shatter and lash out, that warms Kyungsoo’s heart. He likes to remind himself that he’s only doing this for the money, but seeing people be...well... _human_ makes the risk worth it.

He’s knows that this warm feeling he gets whenever he sees Jongin is something else though, something more than just Lust. Especially because he realized a few weeks ago that he _misses_ Jongin when the dancer isn’t around. He misses his scent, his warmth, his smile, his touch.

That’s why, when Jongin’s eyes flutter open and Kyungsoo sees the raw vulnerability spilling out from the fissures of Jongin’s rage, he kisses the dancer. Jongin inhales sharply, unmoving against him, but just as Kyungsoo is going to break the kiss, the dancer kisses him back. He tastes of salt and heat, and the leftover Anger on Jongin’s tongue floods Kyungsoo’s senses. But he’s not angry. He doesn’t feel rage. He feels...desire. He _wants_. He wants more of Jongin, more touch, more taste, more love. Yes, Love. He recognizes it now, and it makes him feel vulnerable, but Jongin is pulling Kyungsoo onto his lap, his warm hands against the feverish skin of Kyungsoo’s waist before Kyungsoo can think about it too much.

Jongin digs his nails into Kyungsoo’s back, but the pain feels good, as good as Jongin’s tongue against his. It fuels him. He tangles one hand in Jongin’s hair and the other he slips under the collar of Jongin’s shirt, tracing the hillock of his collarbone.

But finally, unfortunately, the kiss ends. They part for air, but just barely. Their noses are still touching, their breath interlacing, and Jongin’s hands are clinging to Kyungsoo’s waist.

“Wow,” the dancer says softly.

“That was—” Kyungsoo starts, but Jongin cuts him off with another kiss. A short one, almost chaste, but enough to rob Kyungsoo of his breath again.

“Heavenly? Unearthly? Divine? Rapturous?” Jongin asks, chuckling when Kyungsoo pulls his ear.

“I don’t know what any of those words mean, but yes,” Kyungsoo murmurs.

“I told you to start reading the books I bring over,” Jongin teases.

“What for?” Kyungsoo mumbles, brushing his lips against the ball of Jongin’s nose.

“So you can put words to these life-changing experiences,” Jongin says.

“Or we could just kiss. Again,” Kyungsoo purrs.

“That sounds—”

Kyungsoo doesn’t let him finish. He pulls Jongin close by the collar of his shirt, drinking in the taste of cinnamon and blood orange on the dancer’s tongue. He cups his hand around Jongin’s neck, the dancer’s skin still damp with sweat against his fingertips. Jongin resumes mapping the small of Kyungsoo’s back with his fingers, his touch electrifying. Each brush of skin on skin goes to Kyungsoo’s dick, which tents his pants; when they part again, he looks down at their laps, his cheeks warm with pride at the sight of Jongin’s tented pants.

“This is Lust, isn’t it?” Jongin asks.

Kyungsoo hums a yes, dragging his thumb across Jongin’s bottom lip. He pulls the dancer in for another hot kiss, tongue heavy and wet; he snakes a hand down Jongin’s front, palming Jongin’s hard on. The dancer moans into their kiss and spreads his legs; he digs his nails into the softness of Kyungsoo’s side with one hand and he snakes the other around Kyungsoo’s wrist, guiding his touch. But then he stifles a moan and grips Kyungsoo’s hand, pulling away from their kiss.

“This is—” Jongin gulps, and licks his lips. “This is too much.”

Kyungsoo moves his hand to Jongin’s thigh, then squeaks when he almost slides off the dancer’s lap.

“Oh, sorry!”

“I just lost my balance, Jongin, I’m fine,” Kyungsoo says with a giggle. “That’s okay. This is all overwhelming. Anger by itself is already a lot to handle.”

Jongin looks relieved, his shoulders sagging.

“I like kissing you, though,” he says at last.

Kyungsoo feels the heat rush to his ears. “I like kissing you too.”

“I’d like to again, but maybe not…” the dancer trails off, rubbing his ear with reddened cheeks. “Maybe not so intense.”

“Whatever is comfortable for you,” Kyungsoo says softly.

Jongin looks pensive, looking at Kyungsoo with a twinkle in his eyes that Kyungsoo can’t quite decipher.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

Kyungsoo takes Jongin’s hand and squeezes it. They sit in silence for a little bit, then Jongin lurches to a start.

“It’s nearing curfew, isn’t it?”

Kyungsoo glances at the old analog clock on the wall.

“Yeah, it is.”

They both sigh, giggling when they realize how synchronized they were.

“I don’t want a Base gummy today,” Jongin says.

Kyungsoo freezes. “You should take one. This is your first time with Anger—”

“I don’t want it!” Jongin snaps. Then he ducks his head. “Sorry.”

“That’s exactly why you should take one,” Kyungsoo murmurs.

“I’m not taking one,” Jongin says firmly.

Kyungsoo sighs. “Just be careful. Please.”

“I will,” Jongin says softly. “Promise.”

And he leans over to give Kyungsoo another kiss. Soft, but lingering. Kyungsoo cups Jongin’s cheek with his hand, then pulls the dancer in for a hug when they part. He’s wondering when exactly he became such a sappy mess, but he knows that it coincides with the dancer’s arrival in his life. He just doesn’t want to admit it.

He lets Jongin leave first, wiping down the lab absentmindedly after the dancer walks out to give him time. He’s pretty sure he’s not actually cleaning anything, because he’s too busy thinking about their kisses and how electrifying they were and how good and how hot it felt. Then he realizes he should probably leave if he wants to get home before curfew, so he shrugs on his coat and goes out to brace the evening cold.

~

Jongin is winded when he walks in, his hair windblown and his cheeks flushed. He sags against the door, legs splayed, and he chuckles when he sees the panicky look in Kyungsoo’s eyes.

“What happened?” Kyungsoo hisses, crouching between the dancer’s legs to cup Jongin’s cheeks. He checks for injuries, Worry pulsing through him, but Jongin looks fine.

“Raid on the bookstore I was in,” he says when he catches his breath. He holds up a book triumphantly. “But on the plus side, I got a free book. Didn’t get to pay for it before the Brigado came in.”

“That’s not a plus side!” Kyungsoo squeaks. “You could’ve been caught!”

“But I wasn’t, and now I have a free book,” Jongin says. “I can’t say I enjoyed the scare, but it really got my heart pumping.”

“It’s called adrenaline,” Kyungsoo grumbles. “Don’t do that again.”

“I wasn’t _planning_ to be in a bookstore that was going to be raided by the Brigado,” Jongin teases. “Which was a bust anyway. I don’t think they caught anyone.”

“But _they could have_ ,” Kyungsoo grits.

Jongin pulls him in for a kiss, the book clattering onto the floor. “But they _didn’t_.”

Kyungsoo wants to stay Angry and Worried, but Jongin keeps kissing him, and with each time the dancer’s lips meet his, the emotions melt into that fluttery, gorgeous feeling of Love. But he can’t quite rid himself of the Worry.

“You’re sure they didn’t follow you, right?” Kyungsoo asks.

“I’m sure,” Jongin says. There’s a glimmer of Pride in Jongin’s eyes that finally convinces Kyungsoo.

“Come on,” he says, trying to pull the dancer to his feet.

Of course, that doesn’t work out too well. Kyungsoo stumbles and lands on his ass with a hiss, which makes Jongin giggle. Kyungsoo scowls at him, but the dancer doesn’t seem to care. Jongin stands, stretches, then finally pulls Kyungsoo to his feet.

“Don’t frown so much, you have more than enough to cushion your fall,” Jongin teases.

Kyungsoo’s ears flush. Naturally. He rubs his sore ass and squeaks when Jongin does the same.

“That doesn’t mean it hurt less,” Kyungsoo splutters, waving Jongin’s hands away. He’s not sure how much more he can handle of the dancer touching his ass.

But thankfully, Jongin pulls him towards the sofa. He collapses onto it first, then pulls Kyungsoo onto his lap. Kyungsoo wants to protest, but Jongin wraps his arms around Kyungsoo and cuddles him close, which means (of course) that any complaints Kyungsoo has instantly dissipate.

Still, it gets him thinking. Jongin’s heart has finally returned to its normal beat, and the dancer seems content with burying his nose in Kyungsoo’s hair, but Kyungsoo is still thinking about the raid.

“We should stop,” he says softly.

“Stop what?” Jongin asks.

Kyungsoo doesn’t answer right away. He looks at the distillation hub, then the rest of the lab. His safe haven. This is as much home to him as his apartment is, but Jongin is more his home than either of those things. He doesn’t want to lose Jongin.

“Stop making emotions,” Kyungsoo whispers.

The dancer tenses under him, then pulls Kyungsoo closer.

“Why?” he asks, his voice barely audible.

“I don’t want to live in fear anymore,” Kyungsoo replies. “Every day, I think this is the last time I’ll do this. The last time I’ll deliver a letter, or eat dinner.” _Or see you_ , but he doesn’t say that part out loud.

“Would you really be able to live without this?”

 _Without us_.

He can’t. He’s not stupid enough to act like he can fool himself into becoming a model citizen again. Well, he wouldn’t be 100% a model citizen, because he certainly never intends to stop seeing Jongin, but the distillation, the selling, the rush of his heartbeat in his ears each time he slips a packet into a client’s mailbox; the sirens, the way his throat closes up and his mouth runs dry…he won’t miss that. He has enough money saved up anyway, and his lifestyle isn’t too luxurious.

But Jongin’s right. Especially now that he’s seen the dancer’s transformation. He can’t take back the absolute Joy he felt each time he saw Jongin experience a new emotion. _He_ does that for people. He gives them a piece of themselves back.

So he finally says, “No. I wouldn’t.”

Jongin kisses the top of Kyungsoo’s head, then takes Kyungsoo’s hands in his.

“If I could bring this whole country down on itself, I would,” the dancer says softly. “The Stato says this is a nation run on no emotions, but that’s a lie. This is a nation run on one emotion. Fear.” A pause. “I can’t think of not feeling anything but Fear ever again. It terrifies me.”

“Me too,” Kyungsoo whispers.

“If you really don’t want to, I’ll support you,” Jongin adds. “But I think you should think about it.”

“I will.”

Another kiss on Kyungsoo’s head. He slouches down enough to be able to crane his neck and look at the dancer, closing his eyes when Jongin presses a wet smooch to his nose. The sight of Jongin’s soft smile makes him blurt out something kind of stupid.

“I love you.”

The dancer looks down at him with wide eyes and parted lips. Silence hangs between them, heavy with anticipation; Jongin drags his thumb across Kyungsoo’s cheek.

“I love you too,” he says softly.

Kyungsoo’s heart sings. _This_ , he can’t give _this_ up. This feeling that makes his cheeks warm and his stomach a swarm of butterflies, that makes him feel like he’s in the safest place in the world when he’s in Jongin’s arms. This Love. And to think that he might rob people of the chance to ever feel this if he stops…it crushes him. He knows he can’t stop. He knows he _won’t_ stop. And with Jongin pulling him closer, burying his face in the crook of Kyungsoo’s neck, he thinks maybe things will turn out for the best.

~

Another raid. Another bookstore gone. This time Jongin isn’t in it, which Kyungsoo is grateful for, but it doesn’t make him feel any more safe. The Brigado is relentless, and as of late the raids have increased, frequent enough to make even the most careful of distillers and collectors and librarians nervous. The Brigado don’t usually raid too many places at once; it gives people the wrong idea, makes the Stato look weak, fractured. Thankfully (if Kyungsoo can even be grateful about this), Jongin seems rattled enough by the latest bookstore raid to refrain from going to one for a while. At least, that’s what he says to Kyungsoo that evening.

“I’m terrified,” Kyungsoo murmurs.

“I am, too,” Jongin asks. “How can we not be?”

Kyungsoo sighs, faceplanting into Jongin’s chest. He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to think about anything, but the raids crowd his thoughts. Each night’s walk to his apartment is fraught with Fear, with looking over his shoulder, heart in his throat, flinching each time a car turns a corner, wincing when the lampposts flare on. His Fear doesn’t end when he gets home, not til the message tablet on his wall, the hejma tabulo, pings with a message from Jongin that he’s home. Then he can let out his Fear with a long exhale, and the knot in his stomach loosens enough for him to tuck in his dinner.

“But we can’t live in fear our whole lives, Kyungsoo,” Jongin continues. “That’s not living.”

Kyungsoo knows it isn’t; yet he cannot imagine a life outside of Nova Okazo. It still scares him. For all its flaws (and it has many), it is home. It has always been home. He always has food, medicine should he need it, a place to live in, a job. He doesn’t want to know what it’s like to live with uncertainty.

But he doesn’t want to live in Fear. He doesn’t want the shaken nerves, the nights of lost sleep, the erratic heartbeat each time he hears a siren, the doses of Base chewies tucked in every outfit, every bag. He doesn’t want to sit in his room, looking out at the waxy green of the evergreen trees of The Wilderness, wondering what life outside the city is like, life like it was before the Dua-Renaskiĝo, 

“How are we supposed to get out?” Kyungsoo asks. “You know they’d rather see us dead than let us reach the Wilderness

“I have an idea,” Jongin says.

That idea involves a _lot_ of distillation. Too much for Kyungsoo to do by himself, but apparently Jongin gets the word out through the bookstores; they have five other distillers helping out in other parts of Nova Okazo, plus a handful of other people doing other things necessary for this idea (Jongin doesn’t specify and Kyungsoo doesn’t ask; he just distills). It still means he’s distilling every chance he gets, which leads to weird overlaps in emotions, but it doesn’t matter. They just need people to feel.

He gets big batches of Anxiety out of the way first, then tries to work on Anger, which works out best when he hears of another raid on an illicit bookshop in the Descartes Edukaj Distrikto. He gets a bit of Calm in, but that’s very rare; it’s also difficult when all of his Emotions are tainted with Excitement. He can’t help but be a little bit thrilled by what they’re going to do.

With Jongin’s help, he manages to distill Love and Lust, the first with sweet cuddles and the latter with heavy makeout sessions. They end up with more Lust than he meant to make, but he makes a note to keep that out of the hands of the group going to the Infana Kvadranto.

Once the Emotions harden, they get to work grinding them to a fine dust. His lab becomes a storage unit for rows and rows of jars of Emotion dust, easily soluble in water. Then he takes them to work under the guise of a delivery. Three times a week, he drops of jars at the designated location.

It takes about five weeks, but they finish. They are ready.

~

They aren’t alone. It’s nearly curfew, but a group of them are gathered at the border of the Thales Altecoj under the cover of the birches that ring the street. The lampposts haven’t flickered on yet, but they won’t turn on at all. Not tonight.

Librotenisto Nulo Unu, heart name Junmyeon, is the last to arrive. It’s Komputila Analizisito Kvar, heart name Baekhyun, who gets them into the building. He gets to the main controls for the city misters, then gives them the okay. So they spread out, four pairs with bags full of jars, which are filled to the brim with different emotions. Kyungsoo and Jongin stick together, of course, emptying Inspiration and Anger, Joy and Love, Resentment and Regret into the water tank. There are four misting facilities in the city, each with its own group of rogue Nova Okazans dumping jars of Emotion dust into the tanks.

He’s giddy, his hands trembling as he dumps the last jar into the tank. Jongin beams at him and presses a kiss to his nose before they rush down to meet Baekhyun.

“I’ve turned the filters and purifiers off, so it’ll all be potent,” he says.

“Good, that’s good. Have you put the timer on it yet?” Jongin asks.

“I’m waiting on Jongdae to give me the okay that he’s done,” Baekhyun replies.

And right on cue, Kantisto Dudek Unu, heart name Jongdae, runs up to them, his empty backpack flapping comically behind him.

“Those lids were screwed on really tight,” he says breathlessly.

“What’s the point of your beefed up arms if you can’t open a jar lid,” Baekhyun scoffs.

Jongdae smacks his arm, which makes Junmyeon giggle, but Baekhyun only smiles.

“Alright, timer set for thirty minutes. I’ll ping Chanyeol to see what his status is with the security,” he says at last.

Kyungsoo lets out a sigh of relief. He won’t relax until they’re out of the city, but for now, things are going more smoothly than he expected. Nova Okazo didn’t seem particularly worried about its citizens breaking into facilities, apparently.

They disperse now, sneaking out of the misting plant and into the dark streets of the city. No sign of the Brigado yet, not near the misters, but he’s fairly certain there are sirens out by the electrical plant. So, they’ve finally noticed that Nova Okazo is in the dark.

Kyungsoo is crushing Jongin’s hand in his, but his heart is beating faster than it does when he does his cardio workouts on weekends (city-mandated workouts, for the health of their citizens!). Jongin gives his hand a squeeze as they maneuver through the glass and steel skyscrapers of the Muhammad ibn Musa al-Khwarizmi Bankado Distrikto. The night is eerily silent now that they’re farther from the misting plant and the electrical plant, just the beat of his own heart, the sound of Jongin’s breath, the scuffle of the other members of their group as they hop from street to street.

The misters cough and sneeze to life with the first note of Come and Get Your Love starts to play over the city speakers. It was a corny choice, but it seemed too appropriate to not use, so Kyungsoo had picked it anyway. He smiles. That’s one more phase in motion.

Windows open and people start to stick their heads out. The city stays in darkness, but it doesn’t stop the people from coming out onto the street, marveling at the music, breathing in the concoction of Emotions from the misters. Kyungsoo swears he hears _laughter_ , and someone off to the right tries to sing along, garbled and off-key. But _happy_. Jongin gives his hand another squeeze, and Kyungsoo can make out the ghost of a smile on Jongin’s lips.

The wall looms in front of them. Now Kyungsoo is antsy again, sweat slick on his palms, in part because they’re in the Stoika Altecoj. Kyungsoo’s apartment is only three blocks away. He could go back, act like he had nothing to do with this, but in his heart he knows there’s no going back.

An explosion rips through the night. There’s a mushroom cloud of flame and smoke rising from the northeast quadrant of the city, the quadrant the security system is in. Kyungsoo gulps, but Jongin pulls him in for a comforting hug.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” he says.

Baekhyun stumbles in through the hedge. “That was Chanyeol. I mean, he’s fine, he’s almost here, but he couldn’t hack the system so he just blew it up.”

“Certainly very dramatic,” Kyungsoo grumbles. He wishes they could’ve slipped out quietly, but at least this will distract the rest of the city’s security teams, the Brigado and the Polico.

Sirens interrupt the music, but there’s another rumble in the distance. No, not a rumble. It’s the people, chanting and yelling and marching south towards the Bankado Distrikto. The realization makes Kyungsoo’s heart flutter.

But he almost screams when Chanyeol bursts through the hedges.

“Sorry it took me so long,” he huffs. “That will disable the security system, so the walls aren’t live and the gates aren’t locked. Hopefully that means their targeting system is down too.”

Hopefully. That’s not comforting. Still, Jongin doesn’t seem put out.

“Everyone’s here, right?” he asks.

They do a headcount, then Baekhyun gives them a thumbs up. “All here.”

“Okay.”

Okay. Moment of truth. They can’t dawdle in the hedges any longer, not if they want to actually escape, but no one seems to want to open the gate.

“We need to move,” Junmyeon squeaks.

“ _Fine_ , I’ll do it,” Baekhyun says.

He grunts and pushes and grits his teeth, but the gate barely budges. At their expectant looks, he huffs. “It’s kinda heavy!”

“Right, sorry,” Chanyeol says.

He and Jongdae and Jongin join him, lifting the bar enough for Junmyeon to push the gate open. The metal doors swing out with heavy creaks, then halt. There’s nothing between them and freedom. Just twelve feet of scorched earth to the evergreen wild.

Kyungsoo takes a deep breath, grabbing wildly until he finds Jongin’s hand.

“Together?” he whispers.

“Always,” Jongin says.

Kyungsoo looks at him, panic in his eyes, but the dancer pulls him in for a kiss.

“We’re going to make it,” he whispers.

Kyungsoo gulps and turns back to The Wilderness. They’re going to make it. They. Are. Going. To. Make. It.

He steps past the city walls.

They break into a run because it feels far too exposed; the others are close behind, but they don’t run for long before they hear the spray of gunfire behind them. _Fuck_ . Fuck fuck fuck. There must be a manual targeting system that Chanyeol wouldn’t have been able to disable from the main computers. They should’ve thought of that. They should’ve known. _Kyungsoo_ should have known.

But he can’t think about that now, not when his heart is in his throat, threatening to choke him with Fear. He keeps stumbling over nothingness, because the barren land really is just flat, ugly dirt. Behind him, Baekhyun screams. He hears someone fall, Jongdae’s shouts, and he stops. Baekhyun’s on the ground, blood pooling around his leg, but the volley of bullets doesn’t stop, ricocheting off the ground, whizzing past their ears. He can’t breathe. He’s trying to think, to act, to be rational, but there is no rational thought here. This isn’t Nova Okazo anymore.

A split second is all it takes. He and Jongin pivot, throwing themselves towards Baekhyun to get him up because Jongdae can’t, he’s struggling, his sweat ripe with Fear. Kyungsoo’s left arm burns and he’s not sure why, he just knows he needs to get into the cover of the trees. Baekhyun needs help. They all need help.

They drag him just past the treeline, but that doesn’t stop the bullets and it doesn’t stop the bleeding. They keep walking, running, stumbling, trembling as the night swallows them up. A bullet whistles past Jongin’s cheek and Kyungsoo chokes a sob. He can’t do this. He’s not going to live. He takes one more step before pain shoots up his back and he blacks out.

  
  


~

Sun spills onto Jongin’s face, but he doesn’t seem to be bothered. He’s still asleep. Beautifully, blissfully asleep. Kyungsoo strokes the golden ridge of Jongin’s nose, dragging his fingertips down Jongin’s full lips. Most mornings it’s like this. Kyungsoo is used to waking up early, but most days he doesn’t have much to do, so he waits for Jongin to wake, admiring his profile in the sunshine.

“Why’re you ‘wake s’early,” Jongin slurs.

Kyungsoo giggles. “You know I can’t not wake up early. It would be good for _you_ if you woke up early for once.”

“Too much talk,” Jongin groans, rolling over to bury his face into the pillow.

Kyungsoo clambers on top of him, pressing a messy kiss to Jongin’s cheek before he gets up. He yelps when Jongin smack his ass, but he should’ve seen it coming. He blushes at that, but continues towards the bathroom to clean up.

Baekhyun is waiting in the kitchen with breakfast. Not that he cooked, because they soon discover he shouldn’t be anywhere near a stove, but he’s serving the plates. He’ll always have a limp now, but it’s not too noticeable. He says it doesn’t matter as long as he’s not in pain. He also uses it as an excuse for Jongdae to baby him.

They all have wounds from that day. Kyungsoo’s arm has a scar from the bullet that grazed him. Jongin’s thigh has a similar scar, as does Jongdae’s side. Chanyeol was hit, too, the bullet taking a chunk of his bicep, but it was his scream and stumble that set off the alarms of the Wilderness Commune. They came to save them, carrying an unconscious Baekhyun and Kyungsoo up to the mountains.

Now they’re free. Kyungsoo discovers that he has an affinity for cooking; most of his free time is taken up by experimenting in the kitchen. The results are not always edible, but he doesn’t care. He’s having _fun_. Baekhyun and Jongdae convince him to sing with them, which they do on Thursday nights, twice a month. Jongin continues to dance, teaching the crowd of children (children! It baffles Kyungsoo to see them roam so freely when a child’s growth was so completely controlled by the Stato), and some of the adults that chaperone them.

Happiness comes often. Of course, now that he doesn’t have to dose himself with Base anymore, he feels everything, and it’s a messy mix. He learns to accept that he won’t be able to label everything he’s feeling, but that doesn’t bother him much. His strict rational upbringing has left it’s mark, without a doubt, but now that it’s not drilled into him every day, he finds that he doesn’t care for the science behind Emotions. He just lets them be.

He never thought the commune would be this peaceful. He thought it would be frigid and terrible and full of bitter people, but it’s a warm space, sprawling and wonderful and full of people who are kind. They all get their own wing together, all the former Nova Okazans who escaped on that night. Sometimes they stay up, cross-legged around the fire pit, and tell stories, or sing together; sometimes they just sit there and enjoy each other’s company.

Jongin’s arms snake around Kyungsoo, which makes him jump.

“Morning,” Jongin mumbles into Kyungsoo’s neck.

“I thought you were going to sleep til lunch again,” Kyungsoo chuckles.

“Can you lovebirds untangle yourselves and help me finish up this breakfast,” Baekhyun huffs.

“Help you finish what? You didn’t do anything,” Jongin grumbles, flinching when Baekhyun lands a punch on his shoulder. He giggles anyway, which makes Baekhyun stick out his tongue at him.

But they help him out, setting the utensils and napkins onto the table, and arranging the banchan. They were getting used to eating Korean food here; the commune encouraged people to get in touch with their roots again. Jongdae finishes the vegetable omelette and serves it, grunting when Baekhyun tries to take a corner of it with his bare fingers and burns himself.

After breakfast, Jongin pulls Kyungsoo over to the sofa. They have a few of the snow-laden valley, which only looks that beautiful because they’re super toasty. He lays down first, then pulls Kyungsoo on top of him.

“I love you,” Jongin murmurs into Kyungsoo’s hair.

“I love you more,” Kyungsoo replies.

Jongin snorts. “That’s impossible, because I love you the mostest.”

Kyungsoo smacks Jongin’s forearm, giggling when Jongin blows a raspberry on his cheek.

This is worth it. All his old fears, his ugly, boring life, the risks of escape; all worth it. Each time he looks at Jongin and sees the joy radiating from him, Kyungsoo confirms it was worth it. And he’s eternally grateful (and eternally glad) that he took that risk that cold Fall day and spoke to the beautiful dancer at the edge of a foggy square.


End file.
